В Москве
by DTK-Russialovelove
Summary: Francis Bonnefeuille(France) X Ivan Braginsky(Russia) My 1st language is Chinese so please ignore any grammar mistakes(I tried to modify them but if any left please ignore :P). Thanks for reading! plz comment


I remember that bad time in 1930s, when my country was conquered and I became homeless, being cold and hungry, picking fleas like monkeys in the jungle. At that time, I traveled to Moscow, the capital of USSR, with a group of Soviet refugee. The Soviet governor accepted us, they offered me a job and found a host family for me - The Braginsky sisters, Donia Braginsky and Natasha Braginsky. Every day I clean their house, wash their clothes, receive foods(as one of the communist family) and cook for them. For me it was hard to believe what I've seen there, a floor in a 5-layer-building with more than 20 families were sharing one kitchen, restroom, bathroom and laundry room. Sounds poor right? But trust me, if you've been in Paris at that time, you would enjoy Moscow as if you were in heaven, though the Russian cuisine was shit and the Braginsky sisters know nothing about French - they also said bad things about me because they thought I knew nothing about Russian too. What a joke.

Anyway, there was a night when I slept well and tight beyond the fireplace, there was a guy sneaked in. But he saw me while passing the living room, so he beat me on my head with anger. It happened all in sudden, what I can do was scream out and kick on his belly. Our battle woke up the sisters, they rushed out from the bedroom and separate us two by dragging and pushing. Finally I realized that this guy was the last member of Braginsky's family. He seemed not please about me being there, at least I don't think "White-skin pig of capitalism" is a good phrase. But I cannot curse him back because my Russian was not good enough, and this guy had a gun on his shoulder.

Don't laugh at me, it's not about the gun!

Well, the first impression was never good, but I have to admit that he was a handsome boy. He's Slavic, tall and tough. Have you seen purple eyes? Have you ever heard of a person has all hair whiten in 20s? It's him - incredibly good-looking, like a roman status. If I ever had a chance to bring him to Paris at that era, he would be surrounded by women in every kind, just in a blink of the eyes. And there would be roses and scarfs, red and white and purple, he must be shocked by those warm and welcoming Paris girls.

I also had a good look at that time, but I was unable to keep a photograph, neither mine or his. That's pity.

At last we agreed with each other in the help of sisters. We apologized and exchanged our name. He said he's called Ivan Ivanovich Braginsky, the engineer of army. I said my name is Francis Bonnefeuille, a refugee from France.

Then we set on the fireplace and drank - you may guess out what I'm going to talk about. Yes, few words between two drunk men, not a big deal - he's an alcoholist. Yes, he's in the army but he's still an alcoholist, so did his father, grandfather and grand-grandfather. His grand-grandfather got drunk and fell off from the horse back; his grandfather got a neck-twisted wound in a bar; his father dead suddenly after he finished the last bottle of vodka, several years after, Ivan dead for alcoholism too. Some time you have to believe that there are some people destined to be alcoholist because their genes tell them to do so. At that night we set on the fireplace together, he drank vodka like a cow drinking water - nobody can take that in this way. Then he started to speak drunk words, what a jerk.

"Do you have a middle name, Bonnefeuille?" he started with this question.

"No, aucun(means 'No' in french), my dad never thought about having a middle name for me - I know my dad's name is 'Francis' and your dad's name is 'Ivan', but never ever call me 'Francis Francisvich'. I'm warning you Ivan. If you dare to call me in this way I would knock you on your head with this vodka bottle and knock your sisters' heads too."

"You can try, Francis Francisvich."

He was just like a troublesome American cowboy when he said "Francis Francisvich", but for the gun's sake, I'm not gonna knock his sisters' heads. However, I pretended to do it as I grabbed my glass bottle and walked to the bedroom. When I did that Ivan was so angry as a preying lion. He gripped my ankle and dragged me down to the floor, rode upon my body and beat me on my face. I fought back on his chest and kicked his butt, then he pulled my hair while I bitten on his arm. I started to curse him in German because I knew more about German dirty words - they used to spoke these shit on Avenue des Champs-Élysées, but I never expect that Ivan knew German too. So he got furious, started treading my body. I snatched his gun, pointed at him, ready to pull the trigger, but lost the aim as he kicked on the barrel.

Then we fought again. We fought, beating on our faces and cursed each other in German - quite interesting huh? A Slavic and a French cursed each other in USSR with German. Meanwhile the sisters were woke up again. They separated us and let me lay on the floor for rest. I gasped and painted, hearing a lot of sounds from our neighbors - they were woke up, too. Now Ivan became silence. He left Donia wrapped for me and went out with Natasha, then brought three bottles of vodka and a piece of bread back - I thought he went out for apology! Anyway, because of that bread, we agreed with each other again.

You see, it is the night that our friendship started. I had never heard of him since I went back to France in 1940s, not until 20 years ago, Natasha, his sister, told me that he was dead. We spend around 20 years in that poor little house. Me, Ivan and Natasha witnessed Donia's marriage with a Soviet officer; we argued about the Christmas present for Natasha, while the Soviet's Christmas was still in Dec. 25th; I taught Ivan how to reject the seduce of alcohol in a French way, though we spent more time drinking together - after all of these things I've done with him, it is the only night I remembered deep in my mind. If Ivan still alive, I'd be happy to ask him if he's still remember the night we met. But if he said no, I would be happy to break his nose with my feast.

It was not a normal night. Do you know what happened after that? Nazi's bombing planes arrived. They boomed out... Some buildings, I can't read those Russian words. Then people started to set up balloons, the huge balloons dragged by iron wires. There were solider on the street all the time, yelling at us to tape our window tightly. At night those huge beams of light shot to the clouds, making Moscow became St. Petersburg. There were solider patrolling, curfew, everlasting shaking and booming, shatters from ceiling and walls, the babies always crying and the old people always coughing. Donia and Natasha were frightened all days long, but Ivan was always working at some factory, and he was always dirty and tired and hungry when he came back; or he was going out with some officer out of Moscow, when he's back, the mud on his shoes was so thick that I don't doubt that Moscow can make a new city-wall with it.

But that's the story afterwards. After we made that peace, he started to asking questions again: "What's your job?" he asked. I said: "I used to be a painter, then solider, then refugee, now a factory worker here. I don't know if I am a USSR citizen or not. I don't know Russian much, I don't like this damn freezing winter here. And I don't believe in communism."

He didn't answer but shaked his head. I stared at him, remembered that he's an engineer of army: "Is that what your officer let you ask me?"

He shaked his head again: "No, that's personal."

I really want to beat him up when he say this, but I was running out of energy, so I choose to remain silence, and that's when the embarrassing silence came, when he spent his time on drinking his vodka and me chewing bread. At that time the breads in USSR always have some wood shatters inside, it makes the bread tastes sour.

"Why did you come here?" he asked after I finished my bread. "Why not?" I asked back.

"The majority French people are now living in England and Spain. "he said. "What makes you come here all the way?"

I told him that I have no choice. "Have you seen what does Paris look like now?" I asked him, and answered his question after he shaked his head for the third time.

"I was having my art class when German conquered Ligne Maginot(Maginot Line)." I said. "Then an officer came. He brought all male citizen to the train station, including me. Over there we were stuffed in the train with people in every kind: chef, driver, business man, feeling nothing but fear when we heard that we are going to fight for our country in the battle field - most of us don't even know how to pull the trigger by that time! Finally, half of us were died at the first fight. Me and my pals chose to surrender, and the German brought us back to Paris. I can't believe it, I just can't believe it, that Paris, the most flourish city in the world, opened her chest and welcomed German army. I saw the mayor shaking hands with German officers, I saw French women surrounded and flirted with German solider. I just can't understand it, you know? I can't understand it, that how French people let their country be humuliated! There, in Paris, I used to be pulled out of jail. I thought I'm gonna die! But the manner was commanded, and I have to find a hooker for the German officer, because I was the only one who knew both French and German. Then I became a pimp, serving the officer whenever he wants to 'spare some free time'. I walked on the street, followed by a German solider, hanging a board on my neck and write down: 'jobs for women', and every one knew what does that mean. I was born and grown up in Paris, I knew there's where the best food, wine and girl. Paris used to be the heaven before that war - She always be! Paris is the God bless, there's nothing like Paris! Watching her rotting brought me more hurt than watching her defeated!"

"Don't ask me about his name... I ran away from him while his army heading here. Then I followed a Russian refugee group. That's how I came here."

I told Ivan that it's not a good memory. Ivan nodded, had a drink and said: "I used to be a novelist, but my dream didn't continued long, so I dropped off and attended in army." "What happened?" I asked. "My professor adored Nazi and believed communism has some sorts of similarities with it. I argued with him on lecture, defeated him, the he accused me for some charges in the party, so I have to give up. "

ваша юбка вращают за пределы костра /

красная, красная, красная, желтая /

Моя мечта умирает под ваши шаги танцующих /

Несмотря на то, что они живут

This is the first poem he read for me. See how beautiful it is! He used to read hundreds and thousands of poems like this! Ivan Ivanovich Braginsky was lived for literature!

не падают !/

флаг мечты и мертвые ветви /

сгоревших и бесспорные надписи /

вы будете ехать, чтобы увидеть звезды бессонной ночи

You see it? You see it! How beautiful they are!

"What a excellent boy!" This was what I thought when I heard his poems. I mean, how old am I? I was born in 1912, I was about 30 at that time! But he's just 17 or 18 years old, not 20s, he's as young as a little white brich - he never liked a kid under 20. I mean, look at him, he frowned when he drinks, and he drank a lot. He ate much, he's more than 6.7 feet, he's as strong as a bear! What about me? I saw blood in his poem, see the heartbeat of this land. I almost forgot how I hate USSR - That's it! This damn breeding ground of communism, it's USSR who occupied France with German army!

But now I remembered. So I stand up and beat him again and again on his head, and he had too much vodka to react. I pushed him on the ground and clutched on his neck - it's quiet, his sisters were asleep, there's no disturbance from the neighbors. I was excited! I heard blood pumping through my ears, I wanted to chock him till death! Kill this Ivanovich! Chock this damn believer of Utopia! I murmured about these words, and Ivan heard it. He chocked me on my neck as well and fought me back. This was the beginning of another battle: me and him, the past and the present, capitalism and communism, whatever reflection you can make. It was quiet, no casualties but two weary men laying on the floor with bruises on their face, tugging each other's cloth and sobbing severely.

Why was I crying? Who knows? Because of hurt? Because of the truth that I could be a painter, but fighting with a deep-drunk in Moscow where the birds would never willing to shit on it? Why was he crying? I don't kow. Maybe he's going to the battle field tomorrow. Do you know how many landmines they placed in Moscow? Nobody knows! They even placed landmines inside the city in order to avoid invasion, and Ivan was one of them. He said there would be millions of landmines around Moscow, where the body of solider were gathered as a little hill because of a single wrong step. He said, maybe by tomorrow, his head would be throw on the top of that hill, feet stick in another Ivanovich's stomach, intestine exposed to the sky, leave his remaining boomed to a chunk of dead meat, hanging on the branches nearby.

But who's fucking caring about it? There are millions of Ivan and millions of Ivanovich in USSR, who's gonna care about them? Me? Fuck it! It's the millions of Ivanovich who's pushing the German army at their back! Those dirty, nasty, disgusting people, they are the demons!

"Why did you destroy it!?" I sit up and cried, pulled his collar and shaked him back and force. "You ruined my France! You ruined my France!"

"You destroyed me!" he cried too. "Why are you so weak!? Why!? You coward! Move! Rush! Kill Rommel! What are you afraid of? If you could defeat German army..."

"You wanna die huh? You wanna die?" I yelled at him. "The great Ivan Ivanovich want's to be the hero huh? All right. Go there! Leave Moscow, leave your sisters, the German's in the west! They had just crossed Kaliningrad, they've not reaching Vyazma. You thought you are brave? Why don't you go to the front line? Why don't you go and kill yourself?"

"You are a coward! A coward! Francis Bonnefeuille!" he cried and punched me on my face again. "You are a coward afraid of death! Bonnefeuille! You should die with your pals in Dunkirk! I hate you! Coward, I hate you!"

And I punched him back on stomach: "What kind of hero are you playing!?" I shout at him, he lay back on the floor and I kicked him on his right thigh. "What's wrong with living? Don't you wanna be alive? When I realized that I cannot become a painter, I thought of death. When I was on the street of Paris with the board, I thought of death! Yes, I am a coward. I had three shots, six interrogations, twenty-two slashes. I committed suicide once, hunger strike once, I was dying for four times. I lived because of the German officer and his French hookers - why am I still alive! God! Why I cannot kill myself! Come to me, Ivanovich, you have your gun! Come on! Point here, point my head - Kill me, kill me!"

"Get off asshole! ... I wanna live! I wanna live! Francis Bonnefeuille, I want to live... Toris, my best friend Toris, when I saw his body I cried and vomited! That's my only friend! Does he want to die? Who want to die in this world!?"

I cried, he cried; Donia and Natasha were awake, they cried; the neighbors were awake, they cried, too. There are cryings everywhere. In the room, in the corridor, elevators, restrooms, kitchens, laundries, echoing around in this building.

"What can I do... What can I do..." finally we calmed down. I lay on the ground again as he lay beside me, staring on the floor and murmuring. "I'm seventeen. I've never fall in love before. I have a fiction in my mind: 'the hunter chases a deer in the forest. He runs and runs and runs, send her a brunch of sunflowers.' ...But the death cannot be avoid. If my officer want me to die for the greater prospect, what can I do? I still gonna die anyway, no matter how afraid I am. For the people and my country, I can't leave, I have to die..."

Both of us were silent with tears on our faces.

And, you know the outcome already: Ivan was alive. He's good after finish his landmine work. before the battle of Moscow he was pleasured to walk on the Red Square as one of the solider, but the camera didn't take him. Then he went to the front for six month, and became an operator until the war ended. 15 years later he became a alcoholist just like his father, grandfather and grand-grandfather. He drank all day and borrowed money from everywhere. Donia and Natasha warned him about it, but he never put their words into his head. He left his home, slept in the bar and lived with refugee foods. Finally he died on his couch at home in 1977. He never got married.

At that time there was a doctor said that Ivan was suffered from PTSD, and published several papers based on Ivan's case. He also said I had that too. However, I treat his word as shit since I'm still alive. But I never heard about Ivan's novel anymore - Natasha said Ivan had described several scenes to her after he get drunk. But when he's awake, he started to remember nothing but vodka again, not to mention a single wish to continue his writing.

You see, this is everything I can think of about that war. You must be disappointing right? There's nothing to write about - Ivan never shoot in front of us, he doesn't care about the party, he never get award. Now there are innumerable Ivan Ivanovich Braginsky as it did back to USSR. I'm not sure about the Russian Empire, it's too old for someone to have a name. But the important thing is, before that war, the "Ivan" I used to know was alive. And that war... You know the number of casualties. For me, that war killed millions of "Ivan", maybe also killed "Donia" and "Natasha" too. Do you think they deserve it? No, no one deserves death, no one should run for that. We all have fear to death - you and me, Ivan, Donia, Natasha. I was frightened and peed my pants when the German solider point me with their guns; Ivan cried and vomited when he saw Toris' body, he cannot even have a meal for few days, because Toris is his only friend. When we're facing the sadness of losing our best friend and the pain of being humuliated by our enemies, don't we wanna die? Yeah, we do, but we have to live, because we have no way to choose. You can say it is an excuse, you can say that we are cowards, but does that mattered? Ivan said he lived for Donia and Natasha, but when he dead when he is able to spend some time with them - he's living for himself, we all live for ourself. Nobody's asked to exchange their life for an enemy's life, nobody needs to do that, but there are people doing it.

It is "that war": a group of coward fought with another group of coward, a group of fool exchanged their life for another group of fool's. The fools died at the beginning, the cowards lived in the end. But I still appreciate it, because every one wants to live, but they were such a addle-head. They were willing to run to the front, hit the bullet with their life and dream that never come back, and be willing to leave the most valuable things with us. That also includes the Ivan I knew.

... Don't take my photo! Get your stuff and leave my room. I'm just a old long-living coward, don't make me thank those fools again.


End file.
